“So," he asked. "How's death?""Hard," she said. "It just keeps going.”

“Someone killed my Mother and my Father and my Sister?""Yes, someone did.""A Man?""A Man.""Which means," said Bod, "you're asking the wrong question."Silas raised an eyebrow. "How so?""Well," said Bod. "If I go outside in the world, the question isn't who will keep me safe from him?""No?""No. It's who will keep him safe from me?”

“She's realized the real problem with stories -- if you keep them going long enough, they always end in death.”

“How old are you?" asked Door. Richard was pleased she had asked; he would never have dared."As old as my tongue," said Hunter, primly, "and a little older than my teeth.”

“Any way, death is so final, isn't it?"Is it?" asked Richard."Sometimes," said the marquis de Carabas. And they went down.”

“I asked him if it were a mirage, and he said yes. I said it was a dream, and he agreed, But said it was the desert's dream not his. And he told me that in a year or so, when he had aged enough for any man, then he would walk into the wind, until he saw the tents. This time, he said, he would go on with them.”

“How do I know you'll keep your word?" asked Coraline."I swear it," said the other mother. "I swear it on my own mother's grave.""Does she have a grave?" asked Coraline."Oh yes," said the other mother. "I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.”